I’m 41 and the house I live in once belonged to my grandparents. After they passed, my mum stayed here, and when she was gone, the home was left in my name. It’s always been a quiet, tidy, and peaceful place. I work all day and come home alone. Never did I imagine that all of this could be turned upside down by a decision I made “just to help someone.” Two years ago, a distant cousin rang me in tears. She was splitting up, had a little boy, and nowhere else to go. She asked if she could stay with me “just for a few months” until she got on her feet. I agreed—she was family, and I thought it wouldn’t really affect me. At first, it was fine—she took one room, chipped in a bit towards bills, headed out early for work. Her son stayed with a neighbour during the day. Everything was OK. After three months she quit her job, saying it was temporary and that she was looking for something better. She started staying home all day. The little boy didn’t go to the neighbour anymore—he was always here. The house began to change: toys everywhere, noise, unexpected guests. I’d come home exhausted only to find strangers sitting in my living room. When I asked her to give me a heads-up, she said I was overreacting and that “this is her home too, now.” Soon she stopped contributing to bills—first, she said, she couldn’t manage, then she’d “catch up later.” I paid for everything: bills, food, repairs. One day I came back to find she’d rearranged all the furniture to make it “cosier”—without asking. When I protested, she was offended and said I was cold and didn’t know what it meant to live as a family. It got even more tense when she started inviting her ex round—the very man she claimed she was escaping. He’d come by in the evening, stay the night, use the bathroom, eat our food. One day I caught him coming out of my room, having “just grabbed his jacket” without asking. That’s when I said things couldn’t go on like this—there had to be boundaries. She started crying, shouting, reminding me I took her in when she had nowhere to go. Six months ago, I tried to set a deadline for her to move out. She said she couldn’t—she had no money, her son was at school nearby, and how could I throw her out? Now I feel trapped. My home isn’t mine any more. I sneak in quietly so I don’t wake the child, eat dinner in my room to avoid arguments, and spend more time outside than in. I still live here, but it no longer feels like home. She acts like she owns the place—I pay for everything, yet I’m called selfish if I ask for some order. I really need advice.

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 1

So, Im 41 and the house I live in used to belong to my nan and granddad. When they passed, my mum stayed here, and after she was gone, the house was signed over to me. Its always been my little havenquiet, tidy, just a really peaceful place. I work long hours, come home on my own, and honestly, I never imagined that would be disrupted, especially not because I tried to do a good deed.

Two years ago, an old distant cousinJessicarang me absolutely in bits. She was splitting up with her partner, had a little boy, and nowhere to go. She begged me to let her stay for a few months while she got back on her feet. I said yes, of course; shes family and I genuinely thought it wouldnt really affect me. At first it was all fineshe had one room, chipped in a bit for shopping and bills, left early for work, and the boy would go next door to the neighbour. Absolutely no bother.

But after three months, she quit her job, said it was just a stop-gap and shed find something better, but then she was camped out at home all day with her little one, who no longer went next door. Suddenly the house was chaosthere were toys everywhere, loads of noise, random people popping round. Id come home shattered and sometimes find strangers sat on my sofa. I asked her to give me a heads-up and she turned around and said I was overreactingthat its her home now too.

Then, bit by bit, she stopped putting money towards anything. First it was I cant right now, then shed promise to catch up. Now Im picking up all the billsgas, electric, food, any repairs. One day I came home from work and found shed shifted all the furniture around to make it more homely without even asking me. When I said I wouldve liked to be asked first, she got all offended, accused me of being cold and said I clearly dont understand family life.

It got even tenser when she started inviting her ex roundthe same one she said she was escaping from. Hed turn up most evenings, crash here overnight, use the shower, raid the fridge. I even found him coming out of my bedroom one timesaid he just needed to grab a jacket and thought nothing of it. That was the final straw, so I told Jess that things needed to change; we had to set some boundaries. She started crying, shouting, throwing it back in my face that Id taken her in when she had nothing.

Six months ago, I tried to set a leaving date for them. She told me she just couldntno cash, her boy was settled at the local school, how could I possibly chuck her out? Honestly, I feel trapped. My own home doesnt feel like mine anymore. I tiptoe in, trying not to wake the kid, eat my dinner in my bedroom to avoid arguments, and spend more time outside than in.

Im still living here, but it doesnt feel like home at all. She acts like she owns the place, and I cover all the costs but get called selfish whenever I ask for a bit of respect and order. Im completely at a loss and just need some advice, mate.

I’m 46, and from the outside, anyone looking at my life would say everything is just fine. I got married young—at 24—to a hardworking, reliable man. Had two children in quick succession—at 26 and 28. I left university because schedules didn’t match, the kids were small, and “there would be time later.” There were never any big arguments or drama. Everything went the way it “should.” For years, my daily routine stayed the same. I’d get up before everyone, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, then head to work. I came home on time, finished chores, cooked, washed, tidied up. Weekends were for family gatherings, birthday parties, obligations. I was always there, always responsible. If something needed doing, I sorted it out. If someone needed something, I provided it. I never asked myself if I wanted anything different. My husband was never a bad man. We had dinner, watched TV, went to bed. He wasn’t particularly affectionate, nor was he cold. He didn’t want much, but didn’t complain either. Our conversations revolved around bills, kids, and chores. Then, on an ordinary Tuesday, I sat in the living room in silence and realised I had nothing to do—not because everything was fine, but because at that moment, no one needed me. I looked around and understood that, for years, I’d held this home together, yet now had no idea what to do with myself in it. That day, I opened a drawer of old papers and found unused diplomas, unfinished courses, notebook ideas, projects left “for later.” I looked through photos from when I was young—before I was a wife, before I was a mum, before I became the fixer of everything. I didn’t feel nostalgic. I felt something worse: the sense that I’d achieved everything without asking myself if it’s what I wanted. I began to notice things I always accepted as normal. No one asked how I was. Even when I came home exhausted, I was the one to solve things. If my husband didn’t want to go to a family gathering, that was fine, but if I didn’t want to go, it was still expected that I would. My opinion existed, but didn’t hold much weight. There were no rows or drama, but there was also no space for me. One night at dinner, I mentioned wanting to resume my studies or try something different. My husband looked puzzled and said, “Why now?” It wasn’t said unkindly. He just couldn’t understand why something that had always worked needed to change. The children said nothing. Nobody argued. No one forbade me. Yet I saw that my role was so clearly set that stepping outside it was uncomfortable. I’m still married. I haven’t left, packed my bags, or made drastic decisions. But I’m no longer fooling myself. I know now that for over twenty years, I’ve lived to keep a structure going where I was needed, but never the main character. How do you rebuild yourself after something like that?

I’m 41 and the house I live in belonged to my grandparents. After they passed away, my mum stayed here, and when she was gone, the house was left to me. It’s always been a quiet, tidy, and peaceful place. I work all day and come home to an empty house. I never imagined that would change because of a choice I made “to help someone out”. Two years ago, a distant cousin called me in tears. She’d split up with her partner, had a young son, and nowhere to go. She asked if she could stay for “a few months” until she got back on her feet. I agreed — she was family, and I thought it wouldn’t affect me much. At first, everything was fine: she took one room, helped with the bills, and was out early each morning for work. Her son stayed with a neighbour. No problems. After three months, she quit her job. She said it was temporary, that she was looking for something better. She started spending all day in the house. Her son stopped going to the neighbour and stayed here instead. The place began to change — toys everywhere, noise, and unexpected visitors. I’d come home exhausted to find strangers sitting in my living room. When I asked her to give me a heads-up, she said I was overreacting and that “this is her home now too”. Eventually, she stopped contributing financially. First it was “just for now”, then she promised to pay me back. I ended up paying for everything: bills, groceries, repairs. One day I came home to find she’d rearranged the furniture “to make it cosier” — she hadn’t asked. When I expressed my annoyance, she got offended and told me I was cold, that I didn’t understand what it meant to live like a family. Things became even more tense when she started having her ex over — the man she claimed she’d left. He would come around in the evenings, stay the night, use the shower, eat the food. One day I found him coming out of my bedroom — he’d borrowed “a jacket”, apparently without asking. That’s when I told her enough was enough — there had to be boundaries. She started crying and shouting, reminding me I’d taken her in when she had nothing. Six months ago, I tried to set a deadline for her to move out. She said she couldn’t — no money, her son’s school nearby, how could I throw her out? I feel trapped. My home doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I come in quietly so I don’t wake the child, eat dinner in my room to avoid rows, and spend more time out than in. I still live here, but it no longer feels like home. She acts as if the house is hers. I pay for everything, yet I’m called selfish whenever I ask for order. I desperately need advice.